


The Thieving Magpie

by bemusedlybespectacled (ardentintoxication)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Podfic Available, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock-centric, ashtrays are sexy, sherlock buys his way to sex, sort of, what is this thing you call love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentintoxication/pseuds/bemusedlybespectacled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock starts a palace ashtray collection. It is not because of John (it is totally because of John).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thieving Magpie

The first one is an impulse. He's part of a tour group in Versailles following one of Moriarty's financial backers, who, when not embroiled in the criminal underworld, is rather partial to museums. And then he spots the ashtray. 

It's very simple - cheap, cut glass, littered with French cigarettes - but it's only been a week since his supposed suicide and Sherlock is reminded suddenly, overwhelmingly, of John. It's in his pocket before he even thinks about it, one fluid motion so smooth it barely registers as an action, let alone one he intended, and yes there will be at least four different kinds of tobacco ash in his pocket but there are more important processes for his mental CPU to focus on, so he puts the irritation and the emotion in a folder somewhere and follows the group out to the gardens.

It's only after he's determined the man's PIN (1789, woefully unoriginal) and has successfully hacked into his Cyprian bank account that he remembers the ashtray, which is still in his pocket. He rinses it off in the tiny hotel bathroom, stows it in his suitcase sock index, and transfers all the money to a fund for veterans wounded in action.

He wonders if any of it will go to John. 

* * *

He does, actually, know how to drive, and he does so halfway to Copenhagen from Paris in a hired car, takes a series of cabs and trains the rest of the way, and, after providing Danish police with an anonymous tip that several of their own are involved in an international criminal network, sneaks into the Amalienborg Palace and steals another ashtray - also cut glass, but in a different shape, and engraved with the royal crest.

He manages not to break it when jumping out the palace window, nor during the run to his rented room, nor during the frantic cab ride to the station. He tucks it next to the French one in his suitcase with his socks, where it is joined by ones from Dresden (weapons dealer), Prague (hiring management), and Vienna (revenue). Budapest involves explosions, though luckily not in the vicinity of Buda Castle, and Monaco and Rome are punctuated by hollow-point bullets. 

He actually bleeds on the one he pockets in Albania - a knife wound on his hip he doesn't notice until he's in the shower later that night - and he can't quite get out all the blood from the small crannies made by the embossing in the metal. It is wrapped in a handkerchief and packed with the rest anyway.

* * *

He spends a lot of time in Jordan. He spends his first week trailing a man who manufactures fertilizer from Dead Sea potash and the second week dragging himself from a tepid bath to his bed and back, almost completely incapacitated from the pain of his sunburn. He spends several more months in Jordan, carefully picking at the fringes of the situation, collecting data, until his encrypted email to Interpol has twenty-two attachments: the fertilizer is being sold to a front group and made into bombs. He steals an ashtray from Raghadan Palace in his roundabout route to the airport, and while eyebrows are raised at his collection, he explains that it's just that - a collection - and he boards without any further complaint.

* * *

 He does not stay long in Tehran.

* * *

Irene, it turns out, has been staying in India, and is remarkably good at first aid, at least when it’s because he’s been beaten by terror suspects and not his best friend. She winces almost mock-sympathetically at the bruising on his ribs, the cut across his cheekbone, and lets him spend the next several nights in her flat in Bangalore.

He spends the time writing a virus that bcc's emails sent by network members to himself. He reads them all with his usual speed and sends anything of interest to Interpol, using what data he can glean to find the others in India – menacing a few in Mumbai, recommending some in Chenai join more reputable businesses. 

He pretends that he has reason other than sentiment to steal an ashtray in Jaipur.

He doesn’t.

* * *

He hits the proverbial jackpot while in Bhutan – a complete list of all “employees” for Moriarty’s criminal network. He sends his final email to Interpol. The BBC reports the complete takedown of a criminal network a month later. They do not mention Moriarty, and of course they do not mention him. He is, of course, supposed to be dead.

He books a plane to Hawaii for one final stop. He reasons that it’s on his way, that he requires a vacation after being on the run for so long, that he’s never been to Hawaii, that he might get something for John there (he does, in fact, steal an ashtray – one that has been left on a bench outside, as Americans are not very tolerant of smoking indoors).

* * *

He stands on the walk in front of 221B, his suitcase behind him, some of his collection in his pockets. He rubs them as others would a worry stone, though he tells himself he is neither worried nor anxious.

John opens the door wonderingly, as if seeing him for the first time. Not quite that, either, because the first time John saw him, he didn’t know who Sherlock was.

Sherlock is still musing over this when John’s fist clips him on the side of the jaw. His hands are still in his pockets, and in his attempts to catch himself the Amalienborg ashtray shatters on the pavement, shards embedding themselves in his hand. He’s vaguely aware that he’s bleeding, but the odd pain of loss and the guilt he feels at John’s reaction are taking up more processing space.

“Shit, Sherlock- oh, God, you’re actually- you’re bleeding.”

He opens his mouth to tell John that _yes_ , _he’s quite aware of that,_ but John’s lips are on his, stopping him, and he can neither breathe nor think.

"You should get your hand seen to," says John, after.

"You're a doctor," says Sherlock, " _y_ _ou_ do it."

"I'll yell at you after."

"I never expected otherwise."

"What the hell was that, anyway?"

"Ashtray. Don't worry, I've got more."

John shakes his head almost like he used to, that look that says he can't believe sometimes that Sherlock exists, and helps him back to their flat.

**Author's Note:**

> Not my best, not my worst, I think. Title obviously inspired by Moriarty's heist soundtrack. Prompt from finalproblem's [absolutely adorable headcanon.](http://finalproblem.tumblr.com/post/45765659491/sherlock-comes-home-from-wandering-the-globe-while)
> 
> UPDATE: There is a [podfic of this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/901414) available, read by the lovely and ever-wonderful [thegeekgene](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thegeekgene/pseuds/thegeekgene).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Thieving Magpie (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/901414) by [bemusedlybespectacled (ardentintoxication)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentintoxication/pseuds/bemusedlybespectacled), [thegeekgene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegeekgene/pseuds/thegeekgene)




End file.
